


Labrys

by samyazaz



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 08:09:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2060547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samyazaz/pseuds/samyazaz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the crown of an island in the middle of a broad, warm sea, a palace rises grander than any the world has known. It sits on the hilltop like a diadem, the jewel of the city. Gold and ivory inlays cover the walls, and columns as sturdy as cypress trees support balconies and porticoes too plentiful to count. Rumor in the city has it that the palace numbers more rooms than the beach owns grains of sand.</p>
<p>This is ridiculous, of course, but it is true that there are rooms of every shape and size, for every purpose imaginable: ballrooms and kitchens and libraries and studies, attendance halls for state functions and bedrooms for the royal family. Close to the Queen's own chamber is a nursery, where their children may play and grow.</p>
<p>They have a daughter, who is growing nicely into womanhood, and they lost a son, whom they don't speak of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Labrys

On the crown of an island in the middle of a broad, warm sea, a palace rises grander than any the world has known. It sits on the hilltop like a diadem, the jewel of the city. Gold and ivory inlays cover the walls, and columns as sturdy as cypress trees support balconies and porticoes too plentiful to count. Rumor in the city has it that the palace numbers more rooms than the beach owns grains of sand.

This is ridiculous, of course, but it is true that there are rooms of every shape and size, for every purpose imaginable: ballrooms and kitchens and libraries and studies, attendance halls for state functions and bedrooms for the royal family. Close to the Queen's own chamber is a nursery, where their children may play and grow.

They have a daughter, who is growing nicely into womanhood, and they lost a son, whom they don't speak of.

Light wells rise up through the palace to let in the sun, and breezeways channel the wind off the sea. Laughter can be heard ringing through the halls -- the raucous glee of the king and queen's young daughter, as well as the more polite laughter of their grown-up guests. And sometimes if one listens closely, a faint lowing can be heard beneath the sounds of mirth and conversation. But mostly this is dismissed as the roar of waves crashing against the beach.

The children of the city play a game in which they dare one another to stand at the hilltop, right against the palace's foundation, and listen for the source of that call. The ones who are old enough to know better call out warnings and try to drag their siblings away, but children never listen.

Sometimes, after a child has heard that terrible cry, he realizes that he can always hear it. It runs beneath the laughter and the chatter, a constant note. It never ends, never sleeps, never dies. 

The princess first heard it while learning to spin as a girl, a bundle of red wool in her hands and a spindle whirling at her feet. Now it follows her throughout the palace, but she says nothing. She knows what happens to those who mention it. So she runs and plays and laughs, and does so convincingly enough that no one suspects what she knows.

But sometimes, when there is no one around to see or scold, she crouches down and presses her ear to the floor. She can feel it in the faint thrum of the stones beneath her cheek. She finds it comforting, like the rhythm of the tides.

Only twice in her life, seven years apart, has that faint, distant bellowing stopped. She is a bright child, and it has not escaped her notice that when that happens, there is always a celebration at the palace. When she asks why, no one will tell her the truth.

It doesn't matter. She’s a clever girl, and has figured it out for herself. It is the other thing she never talks about.

She counts the years, as patient as the sea, and when another seven have passed and the palace once again bustles with preparations for a feast, she slips away from her duties and runs down the hill, through the city to the harbor where a great ship rises up like a mountain.

She hides out of sight and counts as people disembark from the ship. There are fourteen in all, not a one of them older than she is. Some weep or shudder in fear. Some stare ahead with dull eyes, resigned to their fate. One -- a young, strong man -- bristles as they’re formed into two straight lines. When he stares, it’s not with resignation but defiance. He catches the princess's eye, and she clutches at the wall she hides behind, breathless. _He might have the strength for it,_ she thinks. _If he is brave._

He sees her. His gaze lingers. Despite the distance between them, she shudders as though he has touched her. They stare at one another across the distance, he in his line and she in her shelter. She allows him this liberty, and offers a smile to see what he will do with it.

It draws him up. He straightens his spine and pulls his shoulders back. He meets her gaze unflinching, standing braced against whatever storm may come like a true hero.

When the company begins to move up the hill, the princess follows. She never takes her eyes off the young man. He never breaks his gaze from hers.

When they reach the palace, the king and queen come to greet them, and the princess slips away unseen. She goes to her room, takes up her wool and spindle, and flicks it into motion as she listens to the distant bellowing. It hasn’t stopped yet, but it will soon. She must be ready.

The king and queen are happy to invite the fourteen men and women to feast with them, and the fourteen are gracious because they must be. They let themselves be dressed in finery, they sit at the table, eat the food, drink the wine. Some of them drink more than manners call for, but everyone pretends they don't notice. 

When the princess comes to supper, she asks if she might help serve their honored guests. Her parents are pleased at her courtesy, and give their blessing.

She makes her way around the table with the jug of watered wine. When she reaches the young man's side, it slips in her hand, and she spills wine upon the table. Not enough to draw attention, not enough to halt the conversations around them. Just enough to allow her to tarry, leaning close beside him while she wipes it up with a cloth.

A curling lock of hair falls forward over her shoulder, brushing his cheek. She has perfumed herself for this occasion, and its scent washes over him, beguiling. He catches her wrist when she straightens, whispers, _Wait--_

She smiles and twists free of his grasp easily, gracefully, so it hardly even feels like a rejection. She hefts the jug, reminding him of her responsibility. _Later,_ she tells him. _By the grand cypress._

Later, when the plates have been cleared and the tables pulled aside, musicians play and courtiers dance. The princess steps out into the humid night and finds the young man waiting for her at the base of the tallest cypress on the hill. He smiles as she approaches, and she walks straight into his arms. He is surprised, but pleased. They cling to one another and she whispers sweet words to him, when he leaves her breath to speak.

It can't last long. There is revelry around them, and every moment holds the danger of discovery. Still, he lets her go reluctantly, and she lets his wounded, yearning eyes lure her back in for one more kiss.

_I will come for you in the morning,_ she whispers against his lips.

_The morning--_ He draws back. His eyes grow dark as the midnight sea. _The morning is too late._

She smiles a secret, knowing smile. _I will bring you something. Wait for me._ Then she whirls away and he stares after her. When he turns back to the feasting hall, his steps are bolder, stronger. He carries something with him now that he hadn’t had before: hope, stirring uncertainly beneath his breast.

A company gathers outside the palace the next morning, standing against the foundations. The fourteen are there, and the king and queen, to oversee the ceremony. A few others attend. Not many. Most think it's an unpleasant business, or try not to think of it at all. Of those gathered, all but one is surprised when the princess joins them, her shoulders thrown back in defiance.

Her parents deliberate with one another as she stands before them, waiting to be sent away. She is a woman grown, they decide. She is old enough to learn their secrets, and preside over matters of state.

They show her the crack in the foundation that is not a crack at all, and how the secret panel can be made to slide open, revealing darkness within.

They all hear the bellowing now. The fourteen men and women shift, apprehensive. The king remains stern while the queen shuts her eyes, her cheeks crimson. The princess does not react at all.

They are not cruel. They give each man and woman a weapon before they usher them into that dark cavern. They disappear one by one, long minutes between, in the flimsy hope that one will return. The princess doesn’t bother to watch. She knows they will not.

She keeps her young man back for the last, and when it comes time to give him his weapon, she steps in closer than she ought and kisses his cheek. He looks down and sees the skein of red thread she has pressed into his hand, the same wool that had been on her spindle when first she heard the crying. She has kept it all these years, waiting for this moment. He holds it in his hands, bewildered.

_There are thirteen weapons in there already, without hands to wield them. You do not need another._ She takes the end and ties it about her wrist. Smiles up at him and kisses his mouth. _This-- This will lead my love back to me._

He is heartened by this, and he squares off with the darkened entrance with more courage than the ones who came before. He strides in boldly, the valiant warrior. The princess smiles as she looks down at the thread tied about her wrist, jumping a little with each of his steps.

Everyone else leaves eventually, abandoning the young man to his fate. Her parents try to convince her to come with them, regretting that they let her stay at all. But she shakes her head, placid, and says, _He will come._

She has waited so long already. She does not mind waiting a little more.

They leave her at last, standing alone on the hilltop, the sea breeze blowing her hair and the sun climbing high above her. She sits in the grass after a while, watching the thread that circles her wrist track across the ground, to be swallowed by the darkness. She waits for the one she loves to return to her. The mournful timbre of that terrible cry is as much a comfort to her now as it was in childhood.

Even were the hallway lit, she would not be able to see where the string leads. The corridor curves not twenty paces in, curves again, branches, doubles back on itself, a hundred different paths leading a hundred different ways. The thread winds through its own path, catching on corners, lying damp in puddles that might be water, or might be something entirely more gruesome. In the dark, it's hard to tell. The wool is red, after all.

As it wends its way deeper, the thread might catch on bones left discarded for long years, or tangle with clumps of matted hair. It shudders like the string of a lute as the eerie shout echoes off the walls. It isn’t faint anymore. Here in this prison beneath the palace, it deafens. The thread trembles as though it knows where it's path leads. Even the walls shake, furtively hinting that they might crumble down if only one were to bellow loud enough, long enough.

Farther in, there is no doubt that the puddles aren't water. The air reeks of blood and fear. Fourteen bodies lie scattered, broken. Thirteen blades and a hank of yarn lie forgotten on the floor. The blood of these men and women mingles upon the floor, stretching from wall to wall like a river, like a lake. On the far shore of this bloody pool someone stands with its feet in the gore, crying out his pain as loud as he can bear, praying the gods will have mercy. His cries echoes out along the corridors, down into the stones, up through the foundations and floors to the palace above, where an attentive ear might hear them.

He quiets when he sees the bundle of cheery red yarn upon the stained floor. The walls cease shaking, and the thread is still. He picks it up, rubs it between his fingers, sniffs at it. His gaze follows its gentle arc as it falls from his hand to the floor, leading a way into the darkness.

Hand over hand, he follows the thread away from that lake of carnage and death. He steps over the bones that threaten to trip him or hold him back, follows the thread around bends and through switchbacks. His steps quicken, though he's not sure what end it guides him to. He's not sure it matters.

It’s a change, and he’s been trapped in this prison for so long with nothing but his own voice for company. Any change is welcome.

He follows the thread through its puddles and its twisting corridors. He turns a corner and has to stop, swaying. A light shines in the distance, brighter than anything he can remember. He weeps, tears streaming from his great, dark eyes. Perhaps it’s joy that makes him cry so, or perhaps it's the burn of light on eyes that have known nothing but darkness for so long.

He steps forward, tentative. Afraid. The thread leads him on; he can place his trust in that. With each step, the darkness recedes behind him. With his next, his foot sinks into grass and earth. He stares down, trembling.

He follows the thread to its end, to the slender wrist it hangs around like a bracelet. His heart pounds as he lifts his gaze. He cannot remember the last time someone stood before him and didn’t mean to kill him. But this one -- she smiles. There are tears in her eyes, as there are in his. 

He lets her touch his snout before he realizes himself and turns his face away, ashamed. Her fingers have come away bloody. He wants to apologize, but he can't remember how to do anything but bellow. 

She turns his face back to her with a gentle hand on his jaw. She steps in and kisses his cheek. Her hands stroke the massive horns that curve from his brow as though she is not repulsed. He doesn't understand, until she speaks.

_You are free,_ she tells him. _Welcome home, brother._


End file.
